


Play Me

by sexylibrarian1



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Light angst in chapter 1, smut in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10037780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexylibrarian1/pseuds/sexylibrarian1
Summary: You are a therapist on Wakanda who happens to be counseling the newly reformed Winter Soldier as he undergoes continuing treatment for his unique condition. After witnessing him nearly fall asleep listening to piano music, you decide to teach him how to play the piano, and realize that his hands, once used for nothing but maiming and killing, are surprisingly tender and elegant… and not just on the piano.





	1. Chapter 1

Sergeant Barnes?”

No response.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

You sighed. The man named James Buchanan Barnes, once known as the Winter Soldier, was sitting on your couch, back against the cushions, knees spread, hands clenched in fists on his thighs, head hanging down. It was his default position whenever he didn’t want to talk to you, and it meant that apparently, all of the progress you had made two days before had gone right out the window. 

“Sergeant…?”

“Stop calling me that.”

You blinked. “Why? It’s your title-”

“I haven’t been Sergeant Barnes in over seventy years. I don’t remember who he is anymore.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do–help you remember-”

“I don’t _want_ to remember him.”

You stopped, at a loss. “Then what do you want to do?”

“…Nothing.”

“That’s not really the point of you being here-”

“Why does everything have to have a goddamn objective?” he burst out, looking up at you. There was anger in his voice and in his stance, but his eyes were pleading. “We’ve been doing this for weeks! I remember things. The triggers are gone; they don’t work anymore. I talk to Steve and that idiot Sam every day, because if I don’t, they look at me like I’m on my deathbed. I help T’Challa when he asks me to. I don’t go after anyone, even HYDRA, because everyone says it’s not healthy. I’m cured. What more do you want?”

“…For you to have a fulfilling life that you can live for yourself.”

A wry bark of laughter escaped from him, and you cringed inwardly at the sight of his smile, bitter and hateful, not at all like the smile you had seen only two days ago when he had been telling you of an incident at the Stark Expo, in which he’d spent three dollars trying to win a stuffed animal for a girl at a carnival game.

“I’ve _never_ had that, Doctor. Not even before HYDRA. Before HYDRA, it was me takin’ care of my sisters and my ma because my dad was dead. On top’a that, there was Stevie, gettin’ in every fight he could and givin’ me heart attacks every time I looked down a damn alleyway. And then I got drafted. I didn’t even choose to be one of the brave men signin’ up. I was forced to. And now you all are askin’ me to behave like everythin’ is normal. Like I’m here on vacation or somethin’. Like this is some rehab resort. You want me to act like gettin’ the response to the triggers outta my head is going to magically make me wanna rejoin society.” He took a huge breath. “Not once has someone, even Stevie, asked me what I wanted since I… woke up. Steve barged in on my apartment in Romania and went through all my journals while I wasn’t even fuckin’ home. I didn’t even get to eat my goddamn plums. He led those people to me and we got caught up in another fight because he wanted to find me. He never asked if I wanted to be found. The only thing I’ve been able to do for myself since we got here is go to sleep… and you all took that away, too.”

Through all of that, you sat in your chair with your mouth slightly open, eyes widening as he talked. It was the most he had spoken since you met him, and instead of being elated that you’d managed to crack his silent exterior and actually do your job for once, you were filled with an ugly guilt. He got up and stalked out, slamming the door behind him, and you jumped, before putting your face in your hands. 

He was right, of course. No one had asked him what he’d wanted. You weren’t entirely sure of what had been going on in the Avengers before James Barnes and the former Captain America, now just Steve Rogers, had arrived here, but since he had been “cured”, no one had asked him what he’d wanted. Steve, desperate to have his best friend back, had immediately tried to integrate him back into some form of society. T’Challa, attempting to give Barnes a purpose in his new home, had asked him to help periodically with royal duties (Barnes had turned out to be a surprisingly decent architect). You had been assigned to give Barnes therapy, and, while making him delve through his fragments of memories, you had never once asked him who he wanted to _become,_ concerned only with who he had been. 

* * *

Sergeant Barnes was due to arrive in your office any second.

You were standing in the lounge, bouncing on the balls of your feet in front of the microwave, waiting impatiently for your food. You’d spent three hours trying to make a plum pie the night before, and had wasted five full pie crusts doing so. The crust had been fine three times out of six, burnt on the second attempt, soggy beyond belief on the third, and perfect, along with the pie, and your last attempt. You’d tried with dried plums, regular plums, dark plums, red plums, and nothing had worked until the sixth and final attempt.

You would be going right back to strawberries and peaches from now on.

The microwave beeped. You took the pie out, ran back to your office, sat in your chair, and turned on your iPad, switching to some piano music, and sat back, attempting to look like you hadn’t been having a complete panic attack stemmed by guilt and your inability to cook anything other than what was directly printed on a recipe. 

Barnes came through the door, went straight for the couch, and sat. You saw his eyebrow briefly twitch upward at the sight of you and your pie, and slumped a little. You probably looked ridiculous; you weren’t chancing a glance in your computer screen to be proved correct.

“What’s that?”

“A pie…” You coughed a little. “A plum one. I made it. For you.” 

He stared at it. You offered him a fork. “You can have it.”

Taking fork and pie as though they were about to explode, Barnes dug in, without cutting a piece off first. You had a full thirty seconds to consider 1) How completely inane you sounded while offering him the food, 2) How terrified you were that it was going to taste terrible, and 3) How you were supposed to be the Doctor in this situation, and therefore, have all your composure at all times _and that definitely isn’t working right now, (your name), is it?_

“It’s good,” he said, with his mouth full, and extended his hands, silently offering you some. You shook your head. “I hate plums.”

Barnes looked at you, down at the pie, and back again. His face contorted oddly, emotions running rampant, going from guilt to thankfulness, then back to guilt. “…Why’d you do that?”

“You never got to eat your plums.”

“I mean, why’d you make me the pie if you don’t like ‘em?”

“…Because I thought you would like it.” 

He looked around helplessly for a moment, and then, unsure of what to do next, finished off the entire pie. “…Thanks, Doc.”

“Of course.” You had to work to keep the wide smile off your face. “What do you want me to call you from now on? I’ve been calling you Sergeant Barnes, but you don’t seem to like that, but I don’t want to be rude and not address you properly…”

“My name is Bucky,” he told you, his voice more certain than you’d ever heard it. “Call me Bucky.”

“Okay… Bucky.”

He yawned widely and lay back on the couch, and you smiled involuntarily at his relaxed position. “What’s that music, Doc?”

“It’s just a compilation of piano songs I found on Youtube.”

“I like it.” He shifted on the couch. “I liked listening to piano music when I was young. My ma played a bit. And so did Stevie’s. They taught me how to do scales, but I was young and… I didn’t really have much patience back then.”

You watched him, interested. “Did you ever want to learn?”

“Yeah, I… I thought about it sometimes…” he answered, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “I remember… I’d watch Stevie draw sometimes and… and I think I’d get jealous because… because I couldn’t really _do_ anything. I was… I was much better at sockin’ idiots in the jaw.”

“I could teach you how to play,” you blurted, and then stopped. _Why the hell would he want to spend any more time with you than he has to, you-  
_

“…I’d like that,” he told you, his eyes brightening up a little. “It would be nice to do somethin’… peaceful for once.”

* * *

After a few weeks’ worth of lessons, you quickly decided that teaching Barnes– Bucky–how to play the piano was the worst mistake of your life. Not because he couldn’t play; no matter how many times that man sold himself short, he couldn’t hide the fact that he was a genius. His skill set from HYDRA alone was enough to illustrate this–he could do complicated trigonometry in his head, for Christ’s sake–but when he started playing, it had only taken him a week to learn what most beginning students learned in two months, and his drive to excel had only increased from there. No, the man could play.

It was a mistake because you had been entranced by the way his hands moved from the second he set them on the piano. Those hands, one flesh, one synthetic, newly made after the loss of his metal arm, made the most graceful movements across the black and white keys that you had ever seen. He never pounded frantically while playing a song, never rocked back and forth, taken with the ecstasy of creating music; he simply played as though he had been doing it all his life and there was nothing else that gave him more joy. 

You could tell he never thought about what he looked like when he played; no, that was all in your head, and if you had your way, you’d never tell him anything beyond, “I’m so glad you asked me to teach you.” He didn’t need to know how he pulled at your heartstrings every time he smiled as he finished a song, or how your breath caught in your chest as his fingers found the keys for the first time at the start of every lesson. As the lessons continued, the songs got more complicated, and he played them with ease, usually after a few tries, and you found yourself looking at his hands one day and thinking, _What if…?_

_Those fingers on my skin, stroking down my back, leaving marks–_

“Doc?”

You coughed. “Ah… that was… that was good, keep going.”

“I haven’t played anything yet.” 

The blood rushed to your face.

“Doc… why’re ya lookin’ at me like that?” He cocked his head, fingers still at the ready on the piano. “You’re lookin’ at my hands like they’re gonna jump up and choke ya.”

You went from red to white in the space of a second, and felt suddenly light-headed. “No! I mean–that’s not-”

“Doc.” He sat back, moving his hands to his lap. “What’s botherin’ ya?”

“Nothing,” you answered, not caring that you sounded like a sullen child. “It’s just… you… your hands look… well, _graceful_ when you play. They’re very… elegant.”

Bucky’s mouth opened a little; he looked completely taken aback. “…Graceful?” he choked out, He brought his hands up from his lap and looked at them, clenched them into fists, then spread them out again. You bit your lip; even that gesture was beautiful. “You think my hands are… graceful?”

“Well, look at them!” You took his right one in your own before you could stop yourself. “They’re in proportion, they’re finely shaped–I mean, I’ve seen some people with some really blunt hands and you don’t have that–my dad used to call these ‘piano fingers.’” 

“They’ve done nothing but maim and murder for over seventy years,” he contradicted. “They’re not graceful, they’re-”

“Beautiful,” you interrupted, firmly stopping him in his tracks. “And that’s not all they did. Your hands are _yours_ again, Bucky. And the only things you’ve done with them are create. Not destroy. You build and you play music. I don’t see them the way you see them, Bucky. Especially because you’ve done nothing but course-correct ever since you woke up without the triggers in your head.” You squeezed his fingers, your voice cracking with the strength of your emphasis. “Your hands are not what HYDRA made them. You are not what HYDRA tried to make you. If you were, you wouldn’t be here right now, playing piano and designing buildings. You’d be with HYDRA, still maiming and killing and destroying. And you’re not.”

“… …Thank you,” he whispered, turning his hands over in yours. He blinked, the motion achingly slow, and you watched his eyelashes sweep over his cheeks before his gray eyes came back up to meet yours. “…This is the first time anyone but Steve has touched me… just to touch me.”

 _Now_ you turned purple.

“…What?”

He watched as you glanced back down at his hands, still resting in yours, and then back up to his face. He inhaled, blinked, and then paused. Your rapidly darkening face was all the answer he needed. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smut bit--dirty talk and fingering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely got interrupted by someone wanting their tax returns done, right in the middle of the smut, so I'm sorry if it sucks!

“Doc... I never told ya that I think you’re pretty.” His face had lost a little of its color, but he held eye contact with you nevertheless. 

You blushed a little. “Bucky-”

“I know, I know, it’s violatin’ some legal crap that I don’t even wanna start to understand... but just... just let me-” His hand moved from your arm, up to your neck, and finally, cradled your cheek. “I haven’t touched a woman in so long... and when I saw ya, I remember thinkin’... God, she’s so gorgeous... and I didn’t understand, mostly because-” His breath hitched as you leaned into his touch. “I hadn’t had time to think of... of dames. Not since I was... since before.” He was stroking your cheek steadily now, thumb moving against your skin, and you sighed softly. “And what dame would ever want me?”

“I do.” The words were out before you could stop them.

“Why?”

You let out air in a sudden, explosive sound that was halfway between a giggle and a snort. “Why? Because you’re you. You’re smart--you’re a freaking genius--I mean, I’ve got a couple of degrees, but I can’t do the kind of math you can do in your head--you are unfailingly kind, you’re protective, you’re loyal, you always try your best to do the right thing, no matter how hard it is, when you want to, you have a great sense of humor, and you’re hot. I mean, I know you’ve told me before how you don’t like the way you look because it’s the way HYDRA made you, but Bucky--I mean--jeez.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk and he took your hands again, placing them on his stomach, letting you feel his abdomen muscles. “Steve is everything you just said and more,” he told you, raising an eyebrow.”

“I don’t like Steve,” you answered, without hesitation. “I mean, not like that. He’s like my big brother. And I heard something the other day about him and Sharon Carter. You, Bucky, are blessedly single.”

Bucky snorted, muscles flexing under your fingers. “I am, doll,” he murmured. “So this is all yours.”

Heat crept down from your face and into your stomach, and he smiled, leaning forward and placing soft, almost hesitant kisses on your neck. “I gotta admit... I’m not very good at this anymore... so you’re gonna have to tell me what ya want me to do.”

“It’s like riding a bike.”

“You try getting on a bike after nearly eighty years and not crashin’ once or twice,” he teased, nipping at your soft skin and leaving insistent little marks. “Tell me what ya want, baby doll... ya like my hands... where do ya want ‘em?”

“Everywhere,” you sighed, unable to say much more as he gripped your hips and pulled you closer. He was muttering something into your neck, his Brooklyn accent strengthening. 

“Where?”

“Here,” you practically moaned, bringing his right hand up to cup your breast, still infuriatingly clothed. His fingers curved to fit around it and you settled into his hand, eyes wide as he began to massage. Your nipple sprung up, tautly visible through your blouse, and he brought his other hand up of his own volition to give the same attention to your other breast. 

“Where else?”

“Goddammit, Bucky, everywhere!” You shifted restlessly against him, and felt his penis, hard against your thigh. 

“Where else?” 

“Right here,” you breathed, and removed one of his hands from your breast, skimming it down your chest and stomach until it rested against you, cupping you tenderly. “Touch me here. Stroke me. Play the goddamn fucking piano on me, Barnes.”

His fingers pressed lightly against you, one after the other, as if he was playing scales, and you moaned. As he did so, his thumb slid up and down your opening, and then he found your clit. He kissed you, taking your second moan inside his mouth, and began moving his thumb in slow circles. “You like that?”

“Yes, Bucky, yes!”

“Watch me, doll,” he commanded softly, his strokes speeding up. “Watch my hands. Watch me make you come.”

You whimpered helplessly, arching against his hand, doing as he asked, your eyes wide with anticipation and need. His fingers began to move in a rhythm, pressing against you, stroking you, kneading you, and all the while, his thumb kept up the slow circles on your clit. Your hips jerked, and he smiled, wrapping his other arm around you, keeping you steady as your hips jerked again. “Bucky-”

“Come on, doll, give it to me,” he groaned. “Watch me, now-”

All at once, you came, unexpectedly hard, and your eyes fluttered and closed, head dropping back. His lips brushed your neck, and he left a bite there. You sighed, your voice low and husky. “God, Bucky...” You giggled, slightly hysterical. “I thought you said you weren’t very good at this anymore.”

“Well, ya did say it was like ridin’ a bike,” he responded, full of snark. “Maybe I just need to keep practicin’.” Grinning wickedly, he dipped two fingers inside your pants, swiped them up your length, and brought them out again, licking them eagerly. “I can always find another therapist.”


End file.
